


Keep the Faith

by snarky_saxophonist



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Mentions of Big Papi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 00:21:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11429286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarky_saxophonist/pseuds/snarky_saxophonist
Summary: Andrew really hates playing against the Yankees.





	Keep the Faith

August 25th is officially his least favorite day, Andrew decides. There was his injury last season, and now this mess of a game. They’d gotten through four scoreless innings against the Yankees before waiting for over an hour for the rain to let up, and now the Sox are down by a run in the eighth. The two teams are tied for first in the East, as they've been for much of the season, and Andrew can feel the determination of both teams to take the game and thus the division lead.   
Aaron Judge steps up to the plate, and Andrew tenses, glancing at Brock, in left next to him. There's pretty much nobody Andrew wants at the plate less than Judge when the bases are loaded, even though there are two outs. 

The sign from León, and Andrew settles in as he waits for the pitch. Judge lays off, but it's a called strike. Judge steps out of the box, adjusting his gloves and taking a couple of swings while the entire Fenway crowd waits with baited breath. Andrew can feel the nervous energy through the ancient ballpark, the fans desperate for an out here. 

Hembree makes his pitch, and it cracks against Judge's bat, deep to center. It'll be a tough play, if it’s not too high and too far gone, but Andrew is already sprinting back, determined to make the catch. He throws himself up at the wall just in time to snag the ball into his glove, looking up to make sure he has it securely in there as he goes back down. His right foot hits the ground first, bending and buckling beneath him and sending him down in a heap. Andrew doesn’t think much of it, caught up in the rush of adrenaline and excitement of the fans from robbing Judge of an extra base hit.

"Jeez, Benny," Brock says as he approaches. "Hell of a catch."

"It was, wasn't it," Andrew grins, flicking the ball at Brock and starting to get up. His fellow outfielder offers him a hand up, which Andrew accepts gratefully. He makes it about halfway up before shooting pain in his ankle forces him back down with a choked-off cry. 

"Benny?" Brock asks worriedly, gesturing at the dugout for the trainer to come over. 

"'M fine," Andrew grits out, putting his weight on his left leg and starting to stand up, slowly shifting some weight onto his right and starting to hobble towards the dugout as the fans’ cheers start to falter.

"Benny, don't-" Brock tries, grabbing Andrew's arm to stop him.

"Benintendi, stop moving!" Brad, the trainer, yells at him as he jogs out on the field. Andrew leans over, biting his lip in pain. Brock’s hand is warm against his back, but even his comforting touch can’t distract from the fire in Andrew’s ankle. “What’d you hurt?” Brad asks as he and John reach the outfielders. 

“Ankle,” Andrew manages. “Buckled as I came down.”

Brad bends down to take a look at his ankle, prodding gently at it. Andrew lets out a harsh breath, trying to hold back his grimace. 

“Alright, you’re coming out of the game,” Brad says. “I want to get a better look at that and get some ice on it as quickly as possible.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, can’t you just check it out while the others are batting?” Andrew asks desperately. He’d be batting eighth in the inning, if they get that far, so there would be plenty of time to get checked out in between.

“Not a chance,” Brad says firmly. “If it’ll be fine, then you can be playing tomorrow, but you’re done for tonight.”

“We’ve got it, Benny,” Brock says. “Just take care of yourself right now.”

“Need help getting to the dugout?” Mookie asks, having doubled back to the outfield after realizing Andrew had gotten hurt.

“I think I’m fi-“ Andrew starts, but Brad glares at him.

“You’re not fine, you could barely get up before,” Brad says. “Yes, he needs help getting off the field.”

Mookie gives him a sympathetic look as he and Brock take up positions on either side of Andrew, helping him keep weight off his ankle as they hobble off the field. Andrew blows his breath out harshly, wishing there was anything to distract him from the pain in his ankle. 

“You’ll be okay, babe,” Brock says under his breath to Andrew, who gives him a weak smile. Brock keeps a hand on Andrew’s back as Andrew clings to the railing of the dugout, slowly hopping down the stairs into the dugout. When he manages to get to the bottom, Mookie squeezes his arm gently, then heads down to get his bat to go warm up. Brock gives him a hug, ruffling his hair for good measure. As Andrew shifts to use Pedey and Brad as a crutch, a sudden wave of longing washes over him for Big Papi. His hugs could make anything feel better, as Andrew had discovered when he’d gotten injured the year before and after the Sox had lost the playoffs. 

“How you doing, Benny?” Pedey asks as they make their slow way down the tunnel towards the clubhouse.

Andrew huffs out a bitter laugh. “Been better.”

“You’re a tough guy, I’m sure you’ll be back out here soon,” Pedey says. “Gotta show Judge who owns his ass, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Andrew mutters. Everybody knows who owns who, and it’s definitely not in Andrew’s favor.

“Seriously, that was one hell of a catch,” Pedey tells him. “I was sure that was gonna be a hit. Hembree owes you a drink for that.”

“I’d rather have a healthy ankle than a drink,” Andrew mumbles miserably. “I won’t be much good for future catches if I’m on the DL the rest of the season.”

“How about you wait to see what Brad says before jumping to a worst case scenario?” Dustin suggests. “Could feel a lot worse than it is, you might be fine by tomorrow.”

“Right,” Andrew says, managing a smile. “I’ll be out there against the Yankees again this season, show them that they can’t keep me down.”

“That’s the spirit,” Pedey claps him on the shoulder as Andrew sits on the edge of one of the tables in the trainer’s room. “Feel better, kid.”

“Thanks,” Andrew says, swinging his legs up on the table at Brad’s prompting.

“I’m going to take a quick look at this here, then we’ll get you in for x-rays just to be sure,” Brad says, reaching to ease off Andrew’s shoe and sock. Andrew glances down at his ankle and immediately regrets it. It’s already swelling pretty significantly, making Andrew’s heart sink at the probability that he’ll be out for awhile. Brad gently palpates the injured joint, but despite his caution, Andrew lets out a stream of curses under his breath at the pain. “Sorry,” Brad says, but continues with his examination, rotating the ankle. Andrew closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, trying to distract himself from how painful it is. “Alright, let’s get you some x-rays now.”

“Great,” Andrew says, trying to keep the bitter sarcasm out of his tone. 

“Do you think you can put any weight on it now?” Brad asks, giving Andrew a hard stare.

“I don’t think so,” Andrew admits grudgingly. 

“I’m glad you’re being honest,” Brad says. “Want to try with just me as a crutch, or have me go get someone else?”

“I can probably manage with just you,” Andrew says, getting slowly off the table. He eases down onto his uninjured leg, then leans against Brad, hopping slowly across the trainer’s room. Andrew stares at the floor, concentrating on just moving forward without hurting himself more, when he hears cheering from the stands. It’s normally fairly quiet in here, so it must have been something big to elicit a reaction that loud. 

“Can we go see-“ Andrew starts, looking back in the direction of the dugout.

“No,” Brad cuts him off. “X-rays, then ice. We need to get on top of that swelling as quickly as we can. But,” he says, softening when he sees Andrew’s expression, “I can call Jon to come down here and help me, and I’m sure he can tell us what happened, okay?”

“Thanks,” Andrew says gratefully, starting his slow hop again. Before he can hop more than a few additional steps, though, Brad stops him.

“Since we’re going to get Jon in here anyways, it’d be easier to do this with him. Let me call him now.”

“Alright,” Andrew says, leaning against the wall to catch his breath while Brad pulls out his phone. He wants to be out there with his team, even if it’s just sitting in the dugout and cheering them on. It kills him to be stuck in here, not even knowing what’s going on in the game. It certainly doesn’t help that he’s miserable and in pain, facing potential time on the DL, and he wants Brock here with him. He settles for running a hand through his hair, envisioning curling up with Brock in bed after the game while Brock plays with his hair. 

“I said it wasn’t urgent, you didn’t have to run,” Brad says when Jon arrives, slightly out of breath.

“Wanted to get here quickly,” Jon shrugs. “Guess you need a second crutch, huh?”

“Sure,” Andrew says grimly. “What happened in the game?”

“Grand slam by Mookie,” Jon smiles. “Sox lead, 5-2. Place is still rocking.”

“Good,” Andrew smiles, pride in his teammates welling up in him. There’s nothing as sweet as crushing it against their biggest rival, especially in such a close race. 

“Now let’s go get this ankle x-rayed,” Brad interjects. “You can watch video of the slam after we get that done.”

“Okay,” Andrew agrees, feeling slightly better with the news of the Sox’s lead. The trainers take up their positions on either side of him, allowing for a faster pace as they make their way over to the x-ray machine. Andrew leans against the wall when they reach the table they use when doing x-rays. He didn’t even play in a full game, but he’s already exhausted, ready to fall asleep far earlier than usual. 

“Should I go get ice and such?” Jon asks. “Are we going to finish up here, or go back to the other room?”

“No, we’ll go back in there; it’s more comfortable and we’ll be here awhile,” Brad says. “Leave the other stuff in there, but bring the ice here. It’s already swelling a lot, we should try to manage that as soon as we can.”

“Got it,” Jon says, heading back into the main trainer’s room as Brad finishes setting up the x-ray scanner. 

“I’m going to bend your foot so we can get a better image, it’s going to hurt,” Brad warns him. Andrew exhales harshly, sinking his teeth into his lower lip to keep from swearing profusely. 

Thankfully, the x-rays don’t take long, and Jon is back just as they finish up, with an ice wrap and anti-inflammatories. The ice feels blissful against his hot, painful ankle, and Andrew swallows the pills quickly, hoping they’ll help relieve some of the pain soon. 

“Come on, let’s get you back to the main room so you can elevate that foot while I look over the x-rays,” Brad says, helping Andrew up again. “I don’t think it’s broken. It’s definitely at least sprained, but the swelling makes it hard to tell how bad it is. We’ll know more for sure tomorrow, but it’ll certainly warrant a DL stint.”

“Oh,” Andrew says, disappointed. Saying that it probably wasn’t broken had given him a moment of hope for getting back on the field, but sprains weren’t anything to mess around with either. “How long do you think I’ll be out for?”

“Well, let me actually get a look at these x-rays first to be sure, okay?” Brad says as Andrew climbs back onto the table. He heads over to the box light to read the x-rays while Jon adjusts the ice wrap and props up Andrew’s foot on a mountain of pillows. 

“Is that too tight?” He asks, fiddling with the straps.

“No, it’s fine,” Andrew says.

“Hopefully the swelling will start going down pretty quickly, so let us know if it feels like it’s getting loose,” Jon says. 

“I’d like for the swelling to go down enough tonight so that we can get you in a boot,” Brad tells him, setting the x-rays down on his desk and opening up a file on his computer. “Good news, it’s not broken, but like I said, there’s definitely a sprain. Keep the ice wrap on it for now, we’ll take it off in about twenty minutes, then go from there on whether to just wrap it for tonight or get a boot on it.”

“Can I go back to the dugout and ice it there?” Andrew asks without much hope. Sure enough, Brad raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. 

“No, you’ll stay here and elevate it,” he says. 

“Can I at least go get my water bottle and my phone from my locker?” Andrew asks. 

“I’ll go see if one of your teammates will get them for you,” Jon offers. “The game should be over shortly, and I want to get Bogaerts down here anyways so we can check on his wrist.”

“Thanks,” Andrew says, slumping back against the wall behind him. There’s nothing he hates more than being injured, stuck sitting around and doing nothing. He’s been active constantly since he was a small child, only taking breaks when he was sick or hurt as a kid, and now that he’s finally achieved his lifelong dream and made it to the show, it sucks so much to be forced to not play. He’s not sure what he’ll do if the Sox make the playoffs and he’s not ready to be back at that point. “How long do you think I’ll be sidelined, worst case scenario?” Andrew asks.

“Worst case scenario would be if you reinjure it while rehabbing,” Brad looks up from his computer to give Andrew a sympathetic smile. “Barring a fluke complication like that, I’d say a month, maximum. Like I said, we’ll know more tomorrow, but my guess is three weeks. You should be good to go before October.”

“Thanks,” Andrew flushes slightly at his transparency.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Brad says knowingly. “The first question I get from every guy in here is about whether they’ll be out for the season, or back in time for the playoffs. In your case, no, your season isn’t over, and you’ll be back before playoffs start. There’s no absolute guarantee, of course, but something would have to go very wrong for that to not be the case.”

“And getting hurt on a stupid catch isn’t very wrong already?” Andrew grumbles.

“I would classify that as a spectacular catch that saved at least two, probably three, runs from scoring, not a stupid catch,” Brad argues. “And yes, you’re right, but we know what we’re doing here, as you know from experience. Did you ever feel like something was going to go wrong when we were helping you rehab your knee last year?”

“No,” Andrew admits. “I just felt like an idiot for getting hurt on a stupid baserunning mistake.”

“Every guy feels stupid when he gets hurt,” Brad says. “Afterwards, it’s always easy to see how it could have been avoided. You could have positioned yourself differently, you could have run harder from the start, you could have slid feet-first instead of headfirst, whatever. In the moment, you can’t always see that, so you get hurt. It doesn’t necessarily mean you made a mistake, just that you were unlucky. Although last year’s injury was more of a mistake, though. This one was just plain old bad luck with your landing.”

“Do you think I could request to get the day off on August 25th every year for the rest of my career?” Andrew muses. “Maybe I’m cursed, and I’ll never get hurt if I don’t   
play today.”

“That’s right, your knee injury was exactly a year ago today,” Brad says. “That is strange. But no, I doubt John would take that as a legitimate reason to keep you out of the lineup.”

“But if I always land on the DL after playing the 25th, that would keep me out of the lineup even longer,” Andrew protests, only half joking.

“Well, you know, I would advise you to wait until this time next year to worry about this, instead of dwelling on it while it doesn’t matter. Bring it up again next August 24th,” Brad suggests.

“Fine,” Andrew heaves an overdramatic sigh. “My own trainer, not even concerned about my health.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what this is,” Brad deadpans. “Not about you being superstitious and, quite frankly, mildly ridiculous.”

“Me? Ridiculous? Never,” Andrew says sarcastically. “Perish the thought.”

“Oh, of course,” Brad says. “Now that we’ve finished with that, can I go back to updating your medical records, or is there some other inane topic that you want to discuss?”

“No, go back to your work,” Andrew says. “Sorry for disturbing you.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Brad says dismissively, turning back to his computer.

Andrew can’t help but laugh when the door opens a moment later to reveal Xander and Jon, disrupting Brad’s attempts at working yet again.

“Benny!” Xander says cheerfully, heading over to where Andrew is sitting. “How’s the foot? That was one fucking amazing catch, Hembree says he owes you unlimited drinks when you’re feeling up to it.”

“Ankle, actually,” Andrew corrects. “It’s not great, I’ll probably end up on the DL until partway through September.”

“Well, shit. We just can’t stay healthy long enough,” Xander grimaces. He’s just coming off a nasty wrist injury that had sidelined him for weeks. 

“I’ll be back before playoffs,” Andrew offers as a consolation. “Could be worse, right?”

“It could always be worse,” Xander agrees. “It could be a torn Achilles or something season-ending. You got lucky in getting unlucky there.” 

“Thanks,” Andrew forces a smile. “Sure doesn’t feel like it at the moment, though.”

“Never does,” Xander gives him a sympathetic look. “I’ve got your water and phone here, and Brock said he’ll be down shortly to come see you.”

“You’re the best,” Andrew easily catches the two items Xander tosses to him, opening his water and taking a long drink. 

“Here, I’ll look over your wrist in the next room, give Andrew and Brock some privacy when Brock gets here,” Jon interjects, gesturing Xander over. “How’d it feel today? You looked a little stiff in your second AB.”

Andrew scrolls through his phone, glancing through the endless Twitter mentions and notifications. His parents and sister have all texted him to ask if he’s okay, so he sends them back a brief update with a promise to call them later and explain in more detail. He can’t help but smile when he sees no less than thirteen messages from Papi, asking if he’s alright and sending hugs. 

“I thought that smile was reserved for me,” Brock’s familiar voice comes through the door. Andrew looks up to see Brock hurrying across the room to him, smiling faintly, but worry clear in his eyes.

“Usually yes, but also Papi,” Andrew says, patting the table next to him in an invitation for Brock to join him. “Don’t get too jealous.”

“How could I? Papi’s the exception to everything,” Brock says, sitting down carefully so as not to jostle Andrew. Andrew rolls his eyes and tugs Brock’s arm, leaning against his boyfriend. 

“Of course,” Andrew agrees. “We win?”

“Thanks to you,” Brock kisses his cheek. “Gave up another couple in the ninth, would’ve lost if not for you saving those runs earlier.”

“Glad I could help win one last game,” Andrew says, his voice wavering slightly. 

“Benny?” Brock’s concern is back, brows furrowing as he pulls away slightly to read Andrew’s face. “One last...Is…how bad? You’re not done, are you?”

“No, it’s not that bad,” Andrew tries to reassure him, but his voice cracks halfway through, and he buries his face in Brock’s shoulder. “I’ll be back before October.”

“Oh, Benny,” Brock breathes, pulling Andrew close with one arm and running gentle fingers through his hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Andrew whispers. “I don’t know why I’m falling apart like this.”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Brock rubs his hand up and down Andrew’s back. “I know this season hasn’t been what you hoped, and this really sucks.”

“I don’t care about the AL Rookie stuff,” Andrew says, surprised to realize that he actually mostly means it. “I know I’ve been playing well, and the team matters more than individual shit, but I want to be playing, not sitting on my ass and watching Judge hit another thirty homers.”

“Who gives a fuck what Judge does?” Brock asks, more sharply than Andrew expects. “We’re going to send him home 0-for-the series, for your sake. He could’ve fucking struck out.”

“This isn’t his fault,” Andrew gestures with his spare arm at his ankle. “It was just bad luck.”

“Technically yes, which is why nobody’ll be throwing at him, but still, fuck him,” Brock says, kissing Andrew’s forehead. “We’ve been doing a shit job of playing together this year, haven’t we?”

“Maybe someone cursed us so only one of us can be on the active roster at a time,” Andrew suggests, managing a weak chuckle.

“As long as we’re both on it for the playoffs, that’s when it really matters,” Brock says. “And I know you’ll be back before then, so as long as I don’t do anything stupid, we should be good to go.”

“Are you implying that my catch was stupid?” Andrew asks, giving Brock a sarcastically withering glare.

“No, your catch was amazing. Season highlight reel stuff right there,” Brock says quickly. “I’m saying that if I did get hurt, it would be from me doing something stupid.”

“Yeah, sure,” Andrew says, laughing for real now. “I love you.”

“Love you too, babe,” Brock’s eyes light up when he smiles, and he’s just leaning in for a real kiss when there’s a knock on the door. Brock jumps back, eyes widening almost comically, so Andrew can’t help but laugh as Brad comes back in.

“Sorry to break up you two lovebirds, but I need to check on the swelling there,” Brad says, gesturing at Andrew’s foot. “Brock, if you could get down for a minute so I could have room to work, that would be great.”

“Yeah, of course,” Brock says, hopping off the table with an apologetic glance towards Andrew. 

“Hmm,” Brad mutters as he undoes the ice wrap, frowning down at the injured joint. Andrew looks at it too, unsurprised to find it still red and swollen. “It looks a little better now, so I’m going to send you home with a boot. When you get home, though, you need to loosen it and ice it for another twenty minutes. The ice should fit in the boot if you loosen it enough, and you should keep it like that when you sleep, too.”

“I have to sleep with it on?” Andrew makes a face, anticipating how uncomfortable it will be.

“For tonight at least, yes,” Brad says firmly. “We’ll look at it again tomorrow to see where to go from there. Keep icing it tomorrow morning and hope that it looks better then and maybe you won’t have to again.” 

“Okay,” Andrew says, wishing he could be the type of person to ignore the instructions and sleep with the boot off. He’s not going to do anything to risk playoffs, though, so he doesn’t really have a choice. Judging by Brad and Brock’s knowing looks, they’re thinking the same thing. 

“Stay off it as much as possible and keep elevating it as well, but if you’re feeling up to it, you can walk on it a little to get home,” Brad instructs as he maneuvers Andrew’s ankle into the boot. “Tomorrow, take anti-inflammatories as you need them, and come see me as soon as you two get here.”

“Thanks,” Andrew says, standing up slowly to test his bad ankle. It holds up better than he thought it would, so he waves off Brock, who had moved closer to help him, but Brock just rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid, Benny,” he says fondly, prodding at Andrew until he wraps an arm over Brock’s shoulders to lean some of his weight against him. “This is what I’m here for, remember?”

“Right, of course,” Andrew grins at him, focusing on his boyfriend’s warmth against him instead of the pain in his ankle. “Brock Holt, Human Crutch.”

“Jerk,” Brock pokes him gently in the ribs. “That’s totally what I meant, not that I have your back or anything.”

“I know you do,” Andrew smiles. “You’ve got my back and my heart.”  
Brock laughs, but doesn’t mock Andrew for being a sap. “Likewise, babe. Love you.”

And leaning against his boyfriend, smiling and laughing with him, despite the circumstances, Andrew can’t help but feel like everything is as it should be.

 

(That feeling only gets better when Andrew hits a two run homer to right in the bottom of the ninth at Fenway to win the ALCS against the Yankees. Judge goes back to try to catch it, but it’s long gone. Andrew sprints the bases with an ear-splitting smile, ankle fully healed, and embraces Brock at home as his teammates pile onto the field whooping and hollering.)

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's still upset about how good Judge is and that the Yankees are probably going to make the playoffs this season?


End file.
